Page 12 of Wedded to a Wayne

Chapter Three

Tanisha

Mrs. Tanisha Wayne.

That’s right. My last name is Wayne now. Because I just did something I once swore on my life-size cardboard M’Baku that I would never do.

I got married.

“Second thoughts?”

The deep-voiced query has me biting my lip. Do I have second thoughts? If I do, it would be too late to voice them now. We negotiated for a week before signing, got blood tests, said our vows, dropped off the boys at his mother’s house and are now on our way home.

Just the two of us.

But I’m fine.

“My second thoughts are reserved to the number of pancakes I ate for breakfast,” I tell him. “You?”

“Same. Your friend’s little girl can really pack them away, can’t she?”

“Rue claims she can usually eat a cajillion.”

“Sounds about right.”

We both smile at that, then the awkward silence settles around us again, the only sound in the vehicle the hot air blowing through the heater, insulating us from the chill outside.

I pretend fascination with the view from my window, smoothing my hands over the sunshine yellow skirt I wore to the courthouse. Joey says this is my “someone needs a hug” color. The one I wear when I’m feeling particularly vulnerable.

That’s not why I wore this. I happen to look good in yellow, and I decided white would be too obvious and sad.

The one-legged desi virgin has finally snagged herself a groom.

I told Emerson I hadn’t planned to marry and it was true. I’d decided years ago to be a wealthy old maid living with or in the vicinity of my best friend instead. J&T Nanny Placement was more successful now than we’d ever dreamed, but who knew? It could eventually go international, and I’d finally have a good excuse to visit Paris. Maybe even Brussels. For chocolate reasons.

Anyway, after my world tour, I’d use my free time to throw more charity events and expand our company’s outreach programs. I’d already started planning a Christmas extravaganza for the local youth center, Bellamy House.

I also played with the idea of having a live-in masseur I’d call Winston, even if that wasn’t really his name.

I would be that aunt. The tiara-wearing, crazy auntie to whatever offspring my brothers managed to produce. If, that is, they could stop being stereotypes of toxic masculinity long enough to deserve a decent relationship.

Sure, there’d been a few hiccups in my original plan. My family wasn’t speaking to me and my best friend was in love and moving in with his man. But the rest of it had been a done deal.

Had it? You’ve never gone anywhere exciting. No man has touched you, because you’re too shy to get a massage. You lived a block away from your parents and when you weren’t working or with Joey, you watched reality shows.

But I was going to do all of those things. Someday.

Until I proposed to Emerson.

My lips are still swollen from the kiss he laid on me at the courthouse. Right there in front of Joey and Elliot, in front of his sons, Lang and Barry.

He tugged me up against him until my feet were off the floor and took my mouth as if we were alone and had all the time in the world. The cheers and embarrassed groans around us faded away. Everything faded except for his lips parting mine, his tongue invading my mouth with a skill that left me reeling.

And now we’re riding in polite silence in his minivan. As if nothing has changed. As if this wasn’t, for all intents and purposes, our wedding night.

What did Aunt Tanisha’s advice get me into?

I was named after her, and we always had a special affinity for each other. She made faces while my father lectured us. She snuck me candy and watched Star Wars with me—because it was Joey’s mother’s favorite—making comments that made the movie a million times funnier than it should have been.

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